Gift of the Dragon

Iron Age Media, August 23 Prompt

 

 "Watch the fire!"

Sir Nicholas screamed his command as loud as he could. Between the growl of the flames and the enclosure of his helmet, he had to roar to his companions. Too late, too quiet. A small band of men were incinerated by a blast of fire. The dragon's flame wrapped its way around stalagmites, wound through the air and, moments before it struck the ground, the orange-red ball of fire turned blistering white.

The men at the point of impact evaporate. They are shadows for an instant and then, they are gone. Not even ashes remain. Those on the edges burst into flames, totally engulfed by the crackling flames, their howling agony drowned out by the shrieking conflagration that devoured them.

No matter. The battle must be joined. The dragon had to be beaten. The warband knew their task, knew their purpose. This evil beast was to die this day, no matter the cost.  But that was easier said than done. The heat was unbearable. The dragon's fire made the cold mountain feel like the edge of a forge's furnace. The heavy plate and padded leather roasted men like pheasants and no one had even gotten into range of the massive beast yet.

"Press on, you lot!" Sir Nicholas cried loudly. He knew full well that if enough of them could close in on the dragon's underbelly, it would not be able to defend against steel lanceheads jabbing into its viscera.

But the men did not advance like they needed to. Indeed, a single swipe from the dragon's left arm caught just two warriors with its push and the resultant screams and bodily mutilations sent every other rushing man backward in retreat.

Without more men to move up with him, Sir Nicholas had to follow suit in retreat. If he were to fall, this group would not survive at all, never mind slaying the dragon. The lone knight was the only man in full plate, the only one to have been in pitched battle before and the only one who knew how to fight a dragon properly. That should have been enough. If these fools would just listen, it would be simple.

The plan was not so difficult to understand. The warriors sally forth to within range of the beast. They keep it occupied and off balance. Meanwhile, heavy ballistae, painstakingly wheeled in up hundreds of feet of incline, would fire at the dragon's wings and eyes, halting and blinding the creature. Afterwards, pointed, sharpened steel would do the rest.

But Sir Nicholas did not understand, armor and sword do not make warriors. He has near 200 men with him, but no actual soldiers. Smiths and potters and farmers had volunteered for the task of slaying the dragon, perhaps out of duty, perhaps seeking glory. Either way, Sir Nicholas would have been better served having twenty or even two men who could maintain their composure and follow orders as needed.

The ballistae let loose on the dragon, of their own accord and with no coordination. Great spears shot out from the darkness, cutting through air with a shrill whistle. Most of them missed and those that hit their mark found scale and muscle, not soft tissue like they needed. Once struck, the dragon quickly let loose a gout of flame towards the barely visible men on the ridges. The shadows concealed them no longer as bright, illuminating fire raced toward them. The screams were swift and harrowing. The peril met its mark and the arbalists and their machines were incinerated they stood, charred to the walls they stood afore.

With no heavy equipment left to do the heavy lifting, all that was left was a mad dash to the beast in a vain hope for a miracle. Sir Nicholas raised his pike and bellowed, "Make for the beast, you damned cowards! Follow me or you shall have no chance!"

The plated man rose up and made a bid to reach the dragon. He alone ran. No other would heed him. As the drake saw Nicholas approaching, he roared. Deafeningly, stunningly, he roared. The humans all paused to clasp their heads, plug their ears to stop the horrid sound assaulting them. The dragon then swung non-chalantly at the knight, barely imparting any of his true strength into the swing.

It was enough to send Nicholas careening into a rocky outcropping. If not for his plate and mail, the knight surely would have broken his back. Instead, the man yelped and then slumped over. His mind was in shock from the blow and though he was still conscious, he could not move.

This was not meant to be. 180 men should have been more than enough. Nicholas brought what should have been more than a match for the dragon. He had men, he had weapons and he was a capable leader. How could it have turned out like this? Defeat was bitter, but the knight held no remorse for the cowards that he lead. He felt no anguish as he heard their bitter cries of agony as the dragon breathed his awful flames upon them.

It was not pain or shame that finally put Nicholas to sleep. It was the wounding of his pride.

"Ha ha ha ha ha."

The laugh was deep, inhumanly so. As the knight stirred, sweat-drenched within his steel and leather cage, he felt this sense of dread that animated his brain like no other force could. All at once, he stood to, snapping up from his stupor, his hands gripping his weapon tightly, a trained instinct. Once more, bellowing laughter shook the stony enclosure that surrounded him.

Sir Nicholas stood alone before the dragon. With fangs larger than a man, clawed hands that could hew even the mightiest of castle walls and flames that could melt rocks, the lone man was not even close to an annoyance, let alone a match for the dragon. But in that moment, Sir Nicholas' fear was allayed by something much more vicious. The knight stood his ground because he had been laughed at. The dragon's mouth opened and in lieu of fire, words.

"Brave, brave mortal! Brave, foolish mortal! Didst thou think thyself a match for me? Didst thou believe thineself far more than thou art! Ha ha ha ha!"

Nicholas gripped his weapon tightly, enough to hear. It made the dragon smile.

"Thine kind is foolish, but thou art not. A clever man was betrayed by cowards. Men have failed thee, but I shall not. If thou wish to survive, take this, mine own sigil. Bathe thineself in dragonic might and be more than thy flesh would permit."

The dragon breathed softly into the air, though to Nicholas, it was a hard gust of wind. Yet before the knight, was a glowing letter, floating in the air of its own accord. Its name or origin he did not know, but the hovering emblem, colored white-orange like hot drakeflame, radiated immense power. The man was quite fearful, not certain of all that was transpiring.

"Take it," the dragon implored. "Take of mine own essence and be greater than these flawed bones and ashes that surround ye. Never fail at the behest of lesser creatures."

Pressure welled in his forehead. Anger and rage were overtaking the knight. With gritted teeth and a roar of his own, Sir Nicholas took hold of the burning sigil. He burned. He was taken by the flame, yet not consumed by it. What was weak was cleansed by fire and the few bits of iron and courage that defined the knight were tempered. Nicholas dropped to his knees, agony abounding, but he was not dying. No, he was being reborn, as dragonkind.